Pale Rider

by Alan Dean Foster

  “You’re a decent man, Mr. B. That’s why we’ve always brought you our trade. You know that I, that we all appreciate—”

  Blankenship cut him off. “Don’t try coddling me with words, son. Words ain’t fit for much and payin’ bills certainly ain’t one of ’em.” But the merchant’s rage had already abated, just as Hull knew it would. Slowly he sat back down on his stool.

  “I ain’t doin’ this for you,” he muttered. “Hell, I’m the only merchant in town that Lahood doesn’t own. Oh, most of ’em have got their own names out on their shingles, but we all know which piper they pay so’s they can stay in business. It does my soul good to see a few other horns in his hide.”

  “Besides which maybe bein’ so busy with us keeps him from figurin’ out how to buy you out?” Hull ventured.

  “That’ll be the day!” Blankenship wagged that finger at his customer a second time. “But I’m serious this go-round, Hull. I can’t afford to keep carrying you folks forever.”

  “We know that, Mr. B.” Hull paused in the doorway long enough to look back at his aggrieved benefactor. “One day we’ll hit it big up there, you’ll see, and when that happens I’ll pay you off in full myself. With interest.” He nudged the double doors wider to make room for his load.

  “Barret.” Hull turned a last time. “You get your goods in the wagon and skedaddle. Just keep moving, no matter what they say.” He nodded significantly toward the window and the unkempt trio lounging outside the Lahood building.

  Hull nodded briskly, then made his way through the portal. Blankenship followed his progress anxiously. Damn fool, he murmured to himself. Good man but a damn fool.

  Ma Blankenship craned her neck, trying to watch the street outside while simultaneously tending to her kitchen. Her thoughts as she watched Hull Barret load the wagon were similar to her husband’s, though she viewed the miner in a more charitable light.

  As for the single stranger she was serving, there was no telling what he thought of the minor drama that had just transpired. He sat quietly and sipped at his coffee.

  Hull dumped the supplies in the back of the buckboard rather more hastily than he intended and hurried back inside for the rest. The last double armload contained Conway’s arsenic as well as a small but precious vial of mercury. He put the two bottles in his pocket, then arranged the load as best he could before he began to tie down the tarp over the pile.

  Across the street the three men exchanged a silent glance. Then they rose, one on the heels of the next, and started to saunter over toward the buckboard. Noting their approach, Hull tried to work twice as fast without appearing to. He didn’t make a very good job of hiding his concern, and this served to amuse the three who spread out to confront him.

  Their leader was one of Lahood’s foremen. Hull recognized him immediately; a not too bright but thoroughly nasty bastard name of McGill. The foreman was a useful animal of the sort that Lahood was fond of employing. He was also just intelligent enough to be amused by his own wit.

  “We got a beef with you, Barret.”

  Hull finished securing the supplies, then deliberately walked over to the hitching rail to untie his horse. This gave him a chance to identify the foreman’s companions, a pair of mean-tempered gully-whompers named Jagou and Tyson. Innocent souls compared to the foreman, but just as capable of causing trouble if they thought they could get away with it.

  McGill knew the miner recognized them. That was the idea. They had neither the need nor the desire to keep their identities a secret. It was important that Barret know that.

  They closed in around the miner, the other two seemingly oblivious to his presence. They didn’t appear in the least interested in what Hull might do, secure as they were in the knowledge that he could do nothing. McGill stepped between the miner and the wagon.

  “You know, you ain’t very polite, Barret. When we rode through the canyon this morning you plumb forgot to say hello.” Tyson let out an evil snigger while Jagou just smiled, showing bent and broken teeth.

  “We told you to stay out of town a while back, seems to me,” the smiler told him, awash in fake amiability.

  “Yeah, you ain’t got much of a memory.” Tyson grinned as he kicked at the dirt. “I remember that clear as day.” He cast a doleful eye on the foreman. “Last time he come through, ‘stay outta town,’ you said. Then you kicked him in the head. Must’ve popped his memory.”

  “Or somethin’ like that,” McGill agreed.

  Jagou looked thoughtful. “Maybe if we kicked him again, it’d all come back to him.”

  Hull stepped past McGill and mounted the buckboard, taking up the reins. If the wagon had been positioned differently, he would’ve taken a chance by whipping the reins, but with it pointing towards the store instead of the street and with the hitching rail and watering trough directly in front of him there was no way he could move in a hurry. Damn. He should have thought of that when he’d pulled in. Too late for it now.

  McGill moved around to one side of the wagon while Tyson and Jagou remained on the other, grinning up at the miner.

  “You ain’t real talkative today, are you, Barret?” McGill feigned disappointment. “What’s wrong? Nothing new up in the canyon? I thought after this morning you’d have plenty to talk about. Don’t you want to tell us about how you’re doin’ up there?”

  “Yeah, how about them Wheeler women?” Jagou leered up at him. “You hump the growed one, or you hump ’em both?”

  Hull’s fingers tightened on the reins until they whitened and the tendons in his neck went taut. Delighted at having hooked his fish on the first cast, Jagou continued to play the line.

  “That little one’s just out o’ knickers, ain’t she?” He chuckled. “Bet she’s juicy as a freshwater clam, huh?” He leaned close, his eyes bright, broken teeth gleaming. “C’mon, Barret, you kin tell us. Don’t you want to share with your friends? Why, we might want to get us a little some time, and I’d be grateful for some pointers.”

  “Yeah, Barret.” Tyson rushed to join in. “Tell us: when you hump ’em, you have the little one on top or on the bottom?”

  Somehow Hull kept control of himself, seated on the narrow seat, his back rigid and his hands trembling. McGill pushed back his hat and stood surveying the miner in disbelief.

  “You just beat all, Barret. What’s it take to get you down off that seat and fight like a man? We have to bust your goods again?” He gestured toward the back of the wagon and the stack of irreplaceable supplies.

  Hull’s lips parted. Words emerged, easy with enforced calm. “I didn’t come here to fight.”

  McGill nodded disgustedly, looking as though he’d been anticipating such a reply. “That’s what wrong with you. You and the rest o’ them tin-pan squatters. You ain’t got no balls, none of you.” Turning, he walked around to the rear of the wagon and flipped up the unsecured back edge of the tarpaulin.

  Hull whirled. “Leave ’em be!”

  A broad smile creased McGill’s face. “Well now, what about this? Seems as how you can talk when you’ve a mind to, though I don’t think much of a man who worries more about his supplies than his women.” He studied the pile. “Don’t see why you’re so damn concerned about this junk anyways. Not much here but tarpaper and wood. Good makin’s for a fire, though. Right, boys?”

  “Oh yeah, a fire,” said Tyson quickly.

  Jagou rubbed his hands together in expectation. “Sure is, boss. It is a mite cold out today.”

  McGill reached into a pocket and brought out a match, then struck it alight on the side of the buckboard. He spoke as it flared to life, watching as it burned down toward his fingers.

  “Better get down from that seat now, Barret. It might get hot all of a sudden, though if what I hear tell about them Wheeler women is half right, you’re probably used to that by now.”

  So saying, he flipped the match onto the oilcloth. Hull was out of his seat instantly, flailing at the incipient bonfire with the unfastened edge of the tarp. He jus
t managed to extinguish the flames before McGill grabbed his ankles and yanked hard.

  Overbalanced on the back of the wagon and without anything to brace himself against, Hull struck the side of the buckboard and fell over into the street. The three men were on top of him before he could regain his footing. The flat sound of fists striking flesh seemed preternaturally loud in the clear mountain air.

  No one saw the hand that silently removed the big oak bucket from its hook next to the watering trough. It was dipped into the icy water and the contents then dumped onto the back of the wagon. There was more than enough in the single bucketful to douse the smouldering remnant of the fire.

  The bucket was a solid, no-nonsense piece of work. It made a loud crack when it slammed down against the back of Jagou’s neck. The roustabout went down as if he’d been poleaxed and his two companions looked up in shock. They barely had enough time to register their surprise before the bucket descended a second time. It smashed Tyson’s hat flat against his skull. He fell over on top of the unconscious Jagou.

  McGill raised a hand to ward off the coming blow, and the bucket splintered against his jaw, sending him sprawling in the mud.

  It was all over in less than a minute.

  Jagou lay on his belly while Tyson started rolling and moaning, clutching at his skull. McGill slowly worked his jaw, which miraculously had remained in place. None of the three had any thoughts of fighting back.

  Ignoring them and whatever they might choose to do, the stranger lifted the remains of the bucket and eyed it critically. There wasn’t much left except the wire handle.

  “Don’t make ’em like they used to,” he murmured to no one in particular.

  Hanging the wire strap back on its hook, he bent and got both arms under Hull Barret’s, lifting the stunned miner to his feet. Hull said nothing as the stranger helped him remount the buckboard. This done, his mysterious benefactor then mounted the gelding tied up nearby, turned, and gave Hull’s animal a whack on its rump. The buckboard lurched forward, then to the side as the stranger guided it out to the middle of the street. Together they rode toward the far end of town.

  Hull had completely forgotten his own injuries. The tall man riding alongside the wagon appeared none the worse for wear. He didn’t look back and he wasn’t so much as breathing hard. But Hull looked back. He had to. It was the only sure way he had of convincing himself he hadn’t dreamed the last five minutes.

  He could see a shaky McGill standing over his cronies, who were still down in the dirt. They were in no condition to walk across the street, much less mount any kind of vengeful pursuit. Thus reassured, he removed his bandana from a pocket and began wiping at the blood that covered his face.

  He tried to see everything a second time in his mind. Everything was fairly clear up to the point when the stranger had intervened. Then a brief blur of action, the bucket whizzing through the air like a medieval mace, and suddenly he was back on the buckboard instead of lying there in the street having the beejeesus knocked out of him.

  It was all pretty hazy, but he was certain of one thing: the stranger had done it alone, without any help from anyone on the street or inside the store. One man had done what the whole town wouldn’t have dared.

  He gazed at his benefactor with a mixture of gratitude and unadulterated awe, but all he could think of to say was, “Obliged.”

  The tall rider’s smile came quick and easy. It made you want to smile back.

  “Those men hold some kind of grudge against you? Three against one’s not fair odds.”

  Depends on who the one is, Hull thought admiringly. “Would’ve stayed out of it if they’d have let me.” He wiped at the bridge of his nose and winced. Sore but not broken. He had reason to be thankful for that. Lahood was not big enough to afford a full-time physician and the barber-dentist didn’t count.

  “Tried to. Didn’t work any better this time than the last. It’s a bit more’n a grudge. Feud’s more like it. Some folks would call it business, I guess. My name’s Barret. Hull Barret.”

  The stranger simply nodded by way of reply. Nodded and smiled. Friendly enough, and more than helpful, Hull decided as he regarded his companion, but not overly informative. Well, that was okay with Hull. You didn’t push a man in such matters, not in gold country. Most men had come to California seeking the yellow metal, but not a few had come in search of anonymity. Yes, that was fine with Hull. Anything the tall stranger might choose to do was fine with him.

  It did nothing to sate his curiosity, though, and he couldn’t resist asking, “You from hereabouts?”

  “Nope.”

  My, but he was talkative. “Placerville? he asked, forgetting his own advice to himself. “Sacramento maybe?”

  A single shake of head and hat. “Uh-uh.”

  Hull Barret hadn’t stuck it out on Carbon Creek for this long because of a lack of persistence. So long as the man gave no indication of taking offense, the miner felt it would be all right to continue with his inquiries.

  “Just passing through, then.”

  The stranger shrugged indifferently. “Maybe. Maybe not. Guess I hadn’t given it a whole lot of thought.”

  Interesting, Hull mused. Interesting and maybe, just maybe, useful. He tried not to sound too anxious. “After what you did back there, I wouldn’t stay in town if I was you. You stuck your foot in a hornet’s nest. I wouldn’t advise sleeping nearby. My cabin’s got two rooms.” He nodded toward the mountains looming just ahead. “It’s not the Palace, but it keeps out the wind and most of the rain, and the beds ain’t under the leaks. You’re welcome to one of ’em for as long as you’d like to stay.”

  The stranger mulled this offer over before replying. “Thanks. That’s kind of you, but I wouldn’t want to be a burden on your family.”

  It was Hull’s turn to smile. “My family’s back east, dead and buried. Got a fiancée, is all. But she and her daughter have a place of their own. So I’ve got plenty of room. It’d be a pleasure to me if you’d stay, not a burden. I’d enjoy the company, and we don’t get to see too may new faces in Carbon. Give me somebody new to jaw at, somebody who ain’t heard all my old jokes, and I’m plumb delighted.”

  “I don’t know . . .”

  “You got business elsewhere?” Hull’s heart began to sink.

  “Not especially.”

  “Well then come on. Three hots and a cot’s the least I owe you.”

  The stranger appeared to think on it further. Or maybe he’d already make his decision and was thinking about something else entirely. Hull couldn’t tell. He considered himself a decent appraiser of both men and ore, but this quiet stranger was an enigma to him.

  A reply, at last. “Sounds good.”

  Pleased with himself, Hull straightened on the hard seat. Ignoring the pain this caused him (McGill had spent a moment or two on his back and the result was slow in disappearing), he chucked the reins to urge the mare to greater speed. Having received a commitment, he didn’t want to give the stranger a chance to change his mind.

  Gradually the road disappeared. A trail veered northward, and Hull turned the wagon onto the barely visible track that led up into the mountains. Low scrub gave way to tall evergreens and rolling foothills made room for steep granite walls with breathtaking speed. The metamorphosis never failed to amaze the Easterner in Hull Barret. These were not civilized mountains like the Adirondacks or the Alleghenies. One minute you were on the outskirts of the great central valley and the next, you were traveling through a granite cathedral.

  He tried to make conversation with his companion, putting aside personal questions in favor of sallies on the weather, the cost of goods, and of course, the possible sources and locations of gold. When it became clear that his pleasant but nearly mute friend wasn’t interested in talk, the miner shut up. Maybe the tall rider was tired, or maybe he was thinking about the consequences of his actions back there in town. Hull didn’t think that was the case, but he had the feeling that with this man you couldn’
t be sure of much of anything.

  They rode on in contemplative silence, Barret’s mind churning furiously with hopes and plans, the other rider apparently content to absorb the beauty of the scenery. It took most of what remained of the day for them to reach the diggings.

  III

  He didn’t say much, but Hull suspected his companion missed nothing as they rode into Carbon Canyon. Not that there was much to see. There were ten thousand canyons just like it that cut into the western flank of the Sierra Nevada, Surely he’d seen copies of Carbon elsewhere. But he looked interested all the same.

  Hull pointed up the slope. “That’s my place, there. Just draw a straight line from that damned boulder that marks the middle of my claim. One of these days I’m going to—but we can talk about that later, if we have the time. I’m sure you ain’t in the mood for chitchat now. I don’t know how long you’ve been riding, but you must be tuckered out right proper after that scrape back in town.”

  The stranger spoke without looking over at him, apparently intent on committing the surrounding terrain to memory. “I’ve been on the trail awhile.”

  Somehow Hull restrained himself from asking “How long?” and “Where from?” “You’ll find water and shaving gear inside. I’ll tell Sarah—that’s my fiancée—there’ll be an extra mouth to feed, and I need to share out these supplies I picked up before dark.” He chuckled. “Bet there’s some folks who didn’t think they’d ever see ’em. Got you to thank for that. Won’t take long. Just make yourself at home.”

  There was more he wanted to say, much more he wanted to tell his new companion. It would have to wait. Ordinarily Hull Barret wasn’t much of a talker, but since this stranger was proving to be such a good listener he felt the words flowing freely. There was something about the tall rider that inspired confidence, and it was more than just his recently demonstrated physical prowess.